


Awakened: A Story of the Sleeping Beauty

by willowbough



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-10
Updated: 2010-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:42:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbough/pseuds/willowbough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sleeping Beauty always loves the prince who wakes her.</p><p>Or does she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awakened: A Story of the Sleeping Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crumblingwalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumblingwalls/gifts).



_But by this time the hundred years had just passed, and the day had come when Briar-rose was to awake again. When the King's son came near to the thorn-hedge, it was nothing but large and beautiful flowers, which parted from each other of their own accord, and let him pass unhurt, then they closed again behind him like a hedge._

\--The Brothers Grimm, _Little Briar-Rose_

 **Prologue**

The prince always comes, true to his moment. Time and again, he happens along just as the enchantment ends, the hedge of brambles and briars that claimed so many luckless contenders bursting into radiant bloom and magically parting to let him through.

Strange, is it not, that simply being in the right place at the right time, should win one man the throne, the castle, and the hand of the slumbering princess within? What test is there to prove him braver, nobler, or worthier than those who perished among the thorns for attempting the castle too soon? For all we know, he might be a rogue, a scoundrel, a careless seducer like the prince of Signor Basile--who took his pleasure of the fair sleeper and spared no further thought for her until one of the babes so begotten woke her by sucking the splinter from her finger.

Fortunately, our prince is not such a rascal. Nor, in the age at which our tale begins, is he a prince in the strictest sense of the word. But the blood of several royal houses runs in his veins, though at considerable remove, and his manners are those of a gentleman born. Handsome, clean-living, well-bred, perhaps a trifle diffident, he is exactly the sort of fellow one might choose to stumble upon an enchanted castle and its slumbering occupants when a century-old spell finally runs its course. A fellow who would regard the sleepers with wonder and pity and the princess--the one at the heart of the spell--with something more. A fellow whose kiss would hold equal measures of desire and tenderness--and who would instantly vow to love and cherish the awakening beauty as his own, from the moment her eyes opened upon an unfamiliar world.

Surely, with such a prince, happily ever after is a foregone conclusion. For the Sleeping Beauty always loves the prince who wakes her.

Or does she?

\----------------

 _The prince helped the princess to rise; she was entirely dressed, and very magnificently, but his royal highness took care not to tell her that she was dressed like his great-grandmother, and had a point band peeping over a high collar; she looked not a bit less charming and beautiful for all that._

\--Perrault, _The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood_

 **Part One**

Her prince (he insists that she call him by his first name, Charles) brings the dressmaker--or rather, the couturier--from Paris, to design her wedding gown. “Only the best for my betrothed,” Charles tells her warmly, before leaving them alone together.

The couturier is at once appropriately deferential and absurdly autocratic: an imperious little man whose taste will not be gainsaid in the matter of bridal raiment. Rosemonde stands patiently in the middle of the floor while his underlings attack her with pins and measuring tape--and tries not to feel too much like a doll being dressed for someone else’s pleasure.

Her mind drifts, irresistibly, toward the world beyond the walls of her father’s chateau, towards Paris in particular. She’d been little more than a child when they left, fleeing from the Terror to take refuge here, in the forests of Normandy. Had the chateau been less well-defended and less distant from the metropolis, their heads might have bidden _adieu_ to their trunks, like those of so many of her parents’ friends.

Quiet, relatively uneventful years had followed, once the Terror had ended. There’d been reports of an ambitious little man starting to rise to power, reports that brought a thunderous frown to her father’s face and made her mother’s pale and anxious. Rosemonde does not know whether they would have returned to Paris then, for her sixteenth birthday was close upon them.

Her sixteenth birthday, when everything changed.

 _I am one-hundred-and-sixteen years old_ , she thinks. _And the world I but barely knew is now dust and corruption._

She shifts restlessly and a seamstress looks up in alarm, gabbling apologies for having pricked the princess with her pins. Rosemonde stifles a sigh and assures the woman that all is well. Her fears assuaged, the seamstress bends again to her task.

Rosemonde lets her thoughts wander once more.

One hundred and sixteen years--and no more experience of the world, whether old or new, than might fit into a thimble.

\-----------------

 _One day, when Talia had grown into a young and beautiful lady, she was looking out of a window, when she beheld passing that way an old woman, who was spinning. Talia, never having seen a distaff or a spindle, was pleased to see the twirling spindle, and she was so curious as to what thing it was, that she asked the old woman to come to her._

\--Basile, _Sun, Moon, and Talia_

 **Part Two**

He calls her his little flower, or sometimes, his rosebud. “Guarded by thorns like the rare blossom you are,” he says, smiling tenderly.

She tells him her name, Rosemonde, means _rose of the world_. “A world I have never seen,” she adds, unable to keep the wistfulness from her tone.

“You aren’t missing a thing,” Charles tells her firmly. “The world today is a noisy, bustling, uncivilized place--quite devoid of charm, sweetness, or tranquility.” He gazes about the garden where they are walking. “I would keep you safe from that, if I could.”

She remembers how her father had tried to keep her safe, spiriting them out of Paris by dark of night and immuring them within this chateau for so much of her girlhood. And before that--though she had not understood at the time--gathering up and burning the spindles and spinning wheels fated to do her deadly harm. No doubt it is the nature of love to protect the beloved at all costs. She could not fault her father then, just as she cannot fault Charles now. But a small, rebellious part of her wonders how one can protect someone else from life itself.

A rattling, clanking, snorting noise--like a mechanical dragon--cuts off her thoughts. It’s coming from the courtyard, she realizes, after the first startled moment.

“Good Lord!” Charles exclaims, and hurries in the direction of the sound. He barely remembers to offer Rosemonde his arm first, but she gathers up her skirts and lengthens her stride to try to keep up.

What’s sitting in the middle of the courtyard does not look like anything she’s seen before, she observes with fascination. Contrary to her first impression, it does not resemble a mechanical dragon. A mechanical coach, perhaps--with padded seats mounted on a metal framework with wheels. And sitting in front, a woman wearing what seems to be a leather helmet on her head and huge goggles over her face. Two other women, one dark, one fair, occupy the seats behind her.

The first woman turns her head as Charles and Rosemonde approach, pushing back the goggles to reveal a face too strong for beauty but oddly attractive all the same.

“Ah, there you are, Charlie,” she remarks in a clear, assertive voice. “I had a devil of a time getting here, I’ll have you know. And I hope you mean to do something about the roads. Can’t have my brand-new motor breaking down in the middle of nowhere.”

Startled by the woman’s familiarity, Rosemonde glances at Charles, whose mouth twists in a smile that is not wholly welcoming. “Rosemonde, this is my cousin, Gertrude. Gert, this is Princess Rosemonde de Belleforest, my intended.”

\--------------

 _In short, they talked four hours together, and yet they said not half what they had to say._

\--Perrault, _The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood_

 **Part Three**

They fascinate her. Gert strides through the quiet corridors of the chateau, clearly intimidated by nothing and no one. Her dark-haired friend, Daisy, is nearly as bold, and while the fair girl--Violet--is quieter, she too does not shrink from anything in her new surroundings.

As guests of Rosemonde’s betrothed, they are accorded a full welcome and suitable accommodations. Still more are expected for the wedding, more visitors from a world neither Rosemonde nor her people know. She can’t help wondering what surprises those guests will bring--or eagerly anticipating what they are.

Charles does not appear to share her eagerness. There is a certain tension between him and his cousin: not dislike, exactly, but--disapproval? In any case, he does not spend much time in her company, though on the occasions when he does . . . Rosemonde notices Violet following him with her eyes.

She herself wants very much to speak to these women, but it is not easy with Charles present. She finally gets a chance a few days before the wedding, when she overhears them talking and laughing just below her window.

Plucking up her courage, she goes downstairs to find them reclining comfortably on the lawn. “May I join you for a while?” she asks.

The three women exchange a look, then Gert smiles a little. “If you like, Princess--this is your home, after all.”

Rosemonde thanks them, and seats herself somewhat hesitantly on the grass. She has put on one of her simpler gowns, a high-waisted frock that had just started to become fashionable when the enchantment took hold, but which still affords her less freedom of movement than Gert and her friends.

Daisy withdraws a slim paper cylinder from between her lips, blows out a fine cloud of smoke. “Cig?” she invites, holding it out to Rosemonde, who takes it bemusedly.

Tobacco, by the smell of it--she remembers her father indulging in it from time to time. A _cigare_ , he’d called it. Her first tentative pull makes her cough violently, but she soon gets her breath back and takes a more cautious puff, before handing the _cigare_ back to Daisy.

“Pardon me--I have never tried this before,” she tells her.

Gert smiles. “We’d guessed as much, but good on you for having a go at something new.”

They seem to be regarding her with a more friendly interest now, and she relaxes a little. “I would like to try new things,” she confesses. “I haven’t had much of a chance to do so.”

“No, I don’t imagine you have.” Gert studies her thoughtfully. “It’s really true, then--my cousin is marrying a bona-fide enchanted princess?”

Rosemonde hesitates for a moment. “You must find it impossible to believe--”

“I did, at first. But then, there’s a story in my country about believing six impossible things before breakfast.” Gert continues to eye her appraisingly. “What was it like, to sleep for a hundred years?”

An imp of mischief unexpectedly rouses in her. “I would tell you,” she replies with the utmost gravity. “But I was asleep at the time.”

After one startled moment, Gert and Daisy both laugh. “I let myself in for that one, didn’t I?” Gert remarks, still grinning. “Very well, Princess--tell us what it was like to live here, before you slept.”

She begins--hesitantly at first, then with more confidence--to share her memories of life at the chateau and even in Paris, before they’d been forced to flee. They listen raptly until she reaches the advent of her sixteenth birthday and stops. “There is no more to tell,” she explains, with a slightly apologetic shrug.

“Fascinating,” Gert muses. “Like speaking to someone preserved in amber. I can’t imagine what it would be like to sleep for a century--and wake to a completely different world.”

“No trains then,” Daisy murmurs, absently rolling her long-extinguished _cigare_ between her fingers. “Nor motorcars. Good heavens--no electricity!”

“I suppose the spell kept all this,” Gert’s gesture encompasses the chateau and the grounds, “safe from thieves or invaders?”

“It must have,” Rosemonde concedes. “We came here to escape the revolutionaries. I heard--after--that a hedge of thorns grew about the chateau, though it was gone when I awoke.”

Gert nods. “I heard that much from Charles. A great hedge keeping everyone and everything at bay--even time.” She pauses for a moment. “I suppose that’s part of what my cousin finds so irresistible about all this. He has always been more than a bit in love with the past.”

“I’m starting to feel cold,” Violet says abruptly--speaking for the first time, Rosemonde realizes. “I think I’ll go in now.” She stands up, gives them all a brief nod, and walks away.

Gert and Daisy exchange a significant look before turning back to Rosemonde.

“Forgive Violet,” Gert tells her. “She hoped for years that she and Charles might--well, that’s neither here nor there now. And it’s certainly no fault of yours that things have turned out as they have.”

Rosemonde blinks, taken aback by this revelation. But the fair girl’s almost-hostile reserve is so understandable now. What would it be like, to care for someone so much as to be consumed with jealousy at the thought of his marrying another? Had she ever felt that herself--in her life before or since the spell?

No--how could she have? She’d been a sheltered girl of not quite sixteen, hiding in the country from forces she barely understood. What opportunity had there been, to meet and fall in love with any man? Once or twice her parents had raised the issue of her making a suitable marriage one day, but always with the understanding that such an occurrence was years away yet--though no one could have predicted _one hundred years_.

Suppressing a shiver, she manages to smile at her companions. “There is nothing to forgive. I am sorry for your friend’s disappointment, and shall take care not to injure her feelings further during her stay here.”

“That’s very decent of you, Princess,” Gert observes, after a moment. “In fact, you’re being quite the trump.”

Rosemonde has no idea what a trump is, but it seems to be a compliment, so she smiles and responds politely. “Thank you. And now, will you tell me something of your world, please? For clearly I have much to learn of it.”

Daisy smiles back and lights another _cigare_. “This could take a while.”

“Indeed, it could,” Gert agrees, taking a _cigare_ herself and passing one to the princess.

The world they describe is as astonishing to Rosemonde as hers was to them. Try as she might, she cannot quite picture it: huge caravans that run on narrow metal rails, carrying people from city to city; lights that flicker on and off at the slightest touch; and, in Paris, an iron tower more than a thousand feet tall.

She is trying to envision the last, squinting through a haze of tobacco smoke and wondering if she will ever have the chance to see it, when a shadow falls over her.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Charles demands furiously.

Rosemonde starts, the _cigare_ dropping from her fingers and extinguishing itself in the damp grass. But the reprimand is not directed at her: it is Gert at whom Charles is glaring.

Gert, for her part, is unperturbed. “Having a nice talk with your intended, cousin. What does it look like we’re doing?”

His nostrils flare. “Smoking, for one. Do you mean to introduce her to liquor next?”

“The princess is a Frenchwoman,” she retorts. “I’m sure she is already familiar with wine and other spirits.”

Rosemonde lowers her head, suddenly wishing herself leagues away. Charles’s anger might be reserved for Gert, but she can feel his disappointment in her like a blow across the face.

“I would appreciate it, cousin, if you’d refrain from corrupting my betrothed,” he says stiffly.

Gert rolls her eyes. “Really, Charles, must you be such a prig?”

Ignoring her, he turns to Rosemonde and holds out his hand. “Princess, will you walk with me?”

His voice is gentle but aggrieved. Feeling guilty, she takes his hand and lets him raise her to her feet. She manages to murmur a quick thanks to Gert and Daisy before he leads her away.

\------------------

 _The prince, charmed with these words, and much more with the manner in which they were spoken, knew not how to show his joy and gratitude; he assured her that he loved her better than he did himself; their discourse was not well connected, they did weep more than talk--little eloquence, a great deal of love._

\--Perrault, _The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood_

 **Part Four**

Charles does not speak even after they have left Gert and Daisy far behind them.

Biting her lip, Rosemonde stares at his set face. “I--I only wished to know your family better,” she ventures at last.

“I do not blame _you_ for this.” He pauses, then sighs. “Forgive me for losing my temper. Gert and I--are not close. Indeed, we seldom see eye to eye on matters of importance. But I do not wish her to come between us now.” He takes her hand, raises it to his lips. “I want to think only of us, and our wedding, and our future.”

Rosemonde experiences a faint stirring of hope at his words. “Perhaps we could go away somewhere, after the wedding,” she suggests.

He gives a decisive nod. “I could not agree more, Princess. And I have the very place in mind.”

“You do?”

“My family’s estate, in England. It’s very quiet--secluded, even.” His face takes on a new resolve. “I promise you won’t be subjected to stares or rude inquiries from strangers. I can keep you safe there.”

“Safe.” The word has a hollow, echoing sound, like the closing of a vault--or a tomb.

“Oh, it’s not as grand as this chateau,” Charles continues. “But I am fond of the place, and it is my inheritance, after all. We can come back to visit your parents whenever you like,” he adds, smiling tenderly at her. “You have only to ask.”

 _Only to ask_ . . . striving against the stream, she makes one more attempt. “Could we perhaps visit Paris then, before we go to your country?”

“Paris?” He stares at her as if she has lost her wits. “Good Lord, I would sooner take you to an insane asylum!”

Rosemonde struggles to contain her own temper, and her growing frustration as he warms to his subject. “The Paris you remember is gone forever, Rosebud. Seeing it as it is now--the noise, the chaos, the crowds--would only distress and frighten you.”

“But _you_ would be with me,” she persists.

“I cannot countenance subjecting you to such an ordeal, not without more guidance and preparation. Perhaps one day, such a journey might be possible, but for now--” He shakes his head. “You are a princess of the blood royal, your parents’ only heir. And,” his voice gentles again, “if you will forgive the phrase, a mere infant in this world to which you’ve awakened. As your future husband, I have a duty to protect you from danger and preserve you from harm.”

Preserve--the word makes her think of a flower, pressed dry and flat between the pages of a heavy book. Or an insect caught in amber, as Gert had suggested earlier.

“Do you really wish to marry ‘a mere infant’? A woman with no experience of the world?” she asks. “Your cousin is so bold, so daring--”

“Don’t compare yourself to Gert! I never wanted to marry her or anyone like her!” Charles exclaims passionately. “You are perfect as you are, Rosebud. And the perfect woman for me.”

“How can you be certain?” she murmurs. “We have known each other so briefly.”

“It is in me to be certain,” he declares. “Since the moment I was old enough to decide, I knew I wanted a--a sweet, old-fashioned girl, but I despaired of ever finding her in this day and age. Until the day I stumbled on to your chateau.” He takes her hands in his, gazes down into her face. “Princess, I would have you remain, always, the sweet, unspoiled innocent I woke with a kiss. Remember?”

Remember? Clearly, she is never to forget. But she nods dutifully and accepts his kiss, even as her heart sinks like a stone within her breast.

She already knows that love can protect and shelter, like a warm cloak. But until that moment, she has not understood that it can also surround--and smother--like a hedge of briars.

\-------------------

 _True love comes by fairy-lot…_

\--Perrault, _The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood_

 **Part Five**

The Prince and Princess de Belleforest visit their daughter in her chamber on the eve of the wedding.

The hundred years lie more heavily on them than on her, Rosemonde thinks sorrowfully. They move more slowly than she remembers from the days before the enchantment, as though they are still not yet wholly awake. Perhaps in time, they will regain some of their former vigor--enough at least to find some pleasure in the life that has been restored to them. Certainly, they are grateful to have been awakened, and their courtesy towards Charles cannot be faulted. Not for a moment did they consider denying him their daughter’s hand in marriage.

Rosemonde’s father kisses her on the brow, bidding her peaceful slumbers. They exchange a wry smile at the irony of his words, then he withdraws, leaving her alone with her mother.

They speak of trifles at first, the details of the ceremony, the ordering of the feast. Then, unexpectedly, the older princess reaches into the hanging pocket of her gown and takes out a crystal phial, filled with some clear liquid.

Rosemonde stares at it, mystified. “ _Maman_ , what is that?”

“Something of the utmost importance to your future, _ma petite_.” She pauses, holding her daughter’s gaze with her own. “My mother--your grandmother--was said to be skilled in the brewing of certain decoctions. Never to harm, of course--only to help. She gave this philtre to me on my wedding morning, and promised it would lose none of its virtue, however long it was kept.” Reaching out, she folds Rosemonde’s hand about the phial. “And now I give it to you.

“Slip this into the wine before the ceremony,” the princess continues. “And once you and your prince--your Charles--have drunk the wedding toast, you will love each other all your days, with no thought of another to come between you.”

Rosemonde stares at the phial, which does not appear to have ever been opened. “ _Maman_ , why do you still have this?”

The princess sighs. “Because, _ma fille_ , on my wedding day, I already loved your father.”

Rosemonde’s gaze drops before the too-knowing one of her mother.

The princess takes her leave soon after, kissing her daughter in parting. Alone, Rosemonde gazes about her chamber, seeing at once everything and nothing: the flowers on her mantel, the combs and cosmetics laid out upon her dressing-table, and--fitted upon a great dressmaker’s form that seems to dominate the room--her wedding gown, all heavy satin brocade and frothy lace. A gown fit for an enchanted princess.

She shivers, chilled to the bone in a way no fire can warm. Everything in her and around her seems coated with ice--except for the phial, curiously warm in her hand. Staring at it, she feels a sudden inspiration take hold, like a seed sown in the dark, sending out a single fragile shoot.

Before doubts can assail her, she hurries from her chamber, heads down the passage until she reaches another wing of the chateau, where their guests are lodged.

The chamber she seeks is at the very end of the corridor, and the door opens at her third knock.

“Princess!” The fair girl’s blue eyes widen in surprise, then narrow to distrustful slits. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Rosemonde swallows. It takes a few attempts to get the words out. “Mademoiselle Violet, I am here--to give you your heart’s desire.”

\------------------

 _And then the marriage of the King's son with Briar-rose was celebrated with all splendour, and they lived contented to the end of their days._

\--The Brothers Grimm, _Little Briar-Rose_

 

 **Epilogue**

The motorcar jounces along the road. Rosemonde is not wholly sure she cares for this mode of transport but she cannot argue with its speed--faster than any horse can follow.

“Almost twenty miles an hour,” Gert tells her proudly.

They are not going at anywhere near that speed now, which Rosemonde finds something of a relief. And at this hour of the morning, just before sunrise, the roads are all but deserted.

They drive in silence for a time, then Gert observes, “I must say, I admire your nerve. I never imagined an enchanted princess would cut and run, rather than stay to marry the prince. Even if it is Charles.”

Rosemonde stares at her hands, lying clenched upon her lap. “I slept for a hundred years. If I marry now--not just your cousin but any man--I shall go on sleeping, even though my eyes are wide open.”

Gert’s brows arch. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” she says at last. “But there is something to what you say. In your position, I don’t know that I’d be in such a hurry to marry either. Especially someone I hardly knew.” She lapses briefly into silence. “I wonder how things are going, back there.”

Rosemonde cannot help but wonder herself.

Once Violet had been convinced of her sincerity, she’d quickly complied with Rosemonde’s plan. Gert and Daisy had also become willing conspirators, the latter choosing to stay behind at the chateau to help Violet carry off her masquerade. Fortunately, the wedding gown’s train was long enough to conceal the fair girl’s slightly greater height, and Daisy had tightened her friend’s corset laces until she could fit into the bodice.

Rosemonde only hoped that the long veil and the dim lighting in the chapel would sustain the illusion long enough for the bride to slip the philtre into the wine with which she and the groom would plight their troth.

“Charles wants--a sweet, old-fashioned girl,” she’d told Violet, whose blue eyes had flashed with a fire Rosemonde had never seen before.

“I shall be everything he wants me to be,” the fair girl vowed. “And more.”

Rosemonde had merely nodded, and helped drape the heavy lace veil over Violet’s face, before leaving her to Daisy’s attentions. Then, muffled in a thick coat, with one of Gert’s caps pulled down low over her own face, she had stolen out of the bedchamber and out of the chateau, where Gert’s motorcar awaited.

She has left a letter to her parents in Daisy’s keeping, and taken most of her dowry. Gert has promised to help her convert her jewels and antique coins into something easier to use once they reach a bank. She has also promised to help Rosemonde establish herself as an independent woman of means, wherever she chooses to settle.

 _How Charles would hate this_ , Rosemonde thinks with an involuntary stab of guilt: _his betrothed turning to his cousin for advice on her future._

But they are betrothed no longer. And if all goes well, he will have no regrets on that score--now or ever.

Rosemonde’s own regrets--and she recognizes that she does have them--are tempered with relief. Of a certainty, she owes Charles her life. But does she owe him her liberty too? Her heart? Is it some lack in her that makes her incapable of being or even _wishing_ to be what he so clearly desires her to be?

Troubling questions, with no easy answers. At least she has tried to give him a bride who loves him--and whom he will love, once the wedding toast is drunk. But it is for Violet to seize the moment and the magic now, and bind Charles to her for the rest of their days. She could only do so much for both of them.

But Paris lies ahead of her--that once-familiar city in which she can begin again. Where she can gain at last some knowledge of the world, from which she has been shut away so long.

A new beginning deserves a new identity. Inspiration comes as she gazes upon the lightening streaks of gold in the morning sky.

 _Aurore_. She will call herself after the dawn--that time of day when all things seem possible.

Gert laughs when she shares this inspiration. “That’s the spirit,” she says approvingly, her gaze still fixed on the road before them.

And the newly named Aurore draws the rug more closely around her, to protect against the morning chill. No longer will she look back at the chateau, her parents, her would-be bridegroom, but only ahead--towards the yet-unwritten future.

She does not know if she will live happily ever after.

But, at long last, she will live.

 

 **THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> The Sleeping Beauty tales quoted in this story are:
> 
> 1. _Little Briar-Rose_ , The Brothers Grimm, translated by Margaret Hunt
> 
> 2\. _The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood_ , Charles Perrault, translated by Andrew Lang and S. R. Littlewood
> 
> 3\. _Sun, Moon, and Talia_ , Giambattista Basile, translated by Richard Burton


End file.
